<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Dean Winchester is Dead by SC_ript</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29963832">Dean Winchester is Dead</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/SC_ript/pseuds/SC_ript'>SC_ript</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon Compliant, Castiel and Dean Winchester Reunion in Heaven, Castiel gardens, Confessions, Dean Winchester is dead, Episode Fix-It: s15e20 Carry On, Jack Kline as God, M/M, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Season/Series 15, Quote: But still beautiful. Still Dean Winchester.</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 09:41:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,947</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29963832</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/SC_ript/pseuds/SC_ript</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester is dead. But he is still beautiful. Still Dean Winchester.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Castiel/Dean Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>64</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Dean Winchester is Dead</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jack comes to him in the garden. </p><p>It is not <em>the Garden</em>; it is a backyard, of sorts. Seen from Heaven’s kitchen window.</p><p>Castiel is kneeling in the grass, hands deep in the dirt, coaxing a reluctant seedling into adolescence.</p><p>“Castiel,” Jack says, appearing behind him. He rests a hand on his shoulder, then pulls it away again, stepping back.</p><p>Castiel hears it in the hesitance of Jack’s retreating footsteps. His hands still in the soil. His mind surges ahead, and he thinks <em>no</em>. <em>Not now. Not yet.</em></p><p>Jack is a silent, steady force behind him. Castiel stands.</p><p>He takes in his garden, the solid square miles of it, petering out into stretching fields at all sides. It is spring at the cusp of summer; May, he thinks, though it was November yesterday. </p><p>It’s a Monday, or possibly a Wednesday.</p><p>The warmth of the Creator’s light bathes the garden in a honey-wheat hue. </p><p>The bees hum in the hyacinths. There is a cloudless blue. Dean Winchester is dead.</p><p>The sky ripples directly over Castiel’s head. A line hitting the water. </p><p>He turns to Jack. “How long?” he asks, the lake turning a deep grey-green above him. </p><p>Jack watches the heavy weight of it, sees the first slip of rain find Castiel’s nose.</p><p>“Three months,” he says. He pauses. “There was a hunt.”</p><p>“Three months,” Castiel repeats, and the lake darkens to a bruise. It doesn’t split, but it pushes downward, a brim-filled net.</p><p>
  <em>Dean.</em>
</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Jack tells him. “I’m so sorry, Castiel. I wish – I wish I could have stopped it.”</p><p>“You could have,” Castiel says, low and tense, “but I understand why you didn’t.”</p><p>Jack comes forward, wrapping his arms around Castiel. These moments have become less frequent since his transformation. But this Jack does as a son.</p><p>Castiel leans into it, a wave rocking against the shore.</p><p>Jack holds him, and Castiel feels an emptied, jostled, glass-bottle weight. It is a heavy hollowness that sinks through him.</p><p>Castiel has taken the lake into himself. The sun returns.</p><p>Heaven is made whole. Dean Winchester is dead. Castiel is drowning.</p><p>“Let me take you to him,” Jack says, softly. “You should be the one to greet him. He’ll want to see you.”</p><p>“No,” Castiel says, pulling away. “No. Let Bobby do it.”</p><p>“Cas— ”</p><p>“Bobby should do it.”</p><p>Jack sighs. But he nods once, and he leaves.</p><p>Castiel goes anyway. Of course, he goes.</p><p>From the Impala’s passenger seat, Castiel watches Dean speak with Bobby. He takes in the shape of him, the clean cut of his face, the grip of his hand. The soft curve of his smile. His soul — <em>his soul.</em></p><p>Dean Winchester is dead. But he is still beautiful. Still Dean Winchester.</p><p>Dean stands, moving toward the car, and Castiel hesitates. When Dean opens the door, the cabin is empty. He slides in and flips on the radio.</p><p>Castiel watches from the treeline. <em>I saved you</em>, he thinks. <em>I was supposed to save you. </em></p><p>But Dean Winchester is dead. Castiel returns to the garden.</p><p>In Heaven, Dean drives, and Castiel plants bluebonnets. </p><p>Castiel has seen millennia, and he has died before. Time is — it’s familiar to him. And time in Heaven was always precise, calculated; it was measured and allotted in steady increments. Angels couldn’t go off-clock, but they kept carefully documented timecards. They found efficiency in prophecies put down in strict calendars. In seals, inventoried and defined. Angels have been Type A, taking comfort in their divine plans.</p><p>It’s different now. Angels have had to learn to make adjustments.</p><p>Now, time in Heaven comes and goes with the weather. If you don’t like it, wait five minutes.</p><p>Dean finishes his drive, and then Sam is here. Eileen follows quickly after, as do the others. Like the build of rain above an open field. A steady sound against the windows at the break of day. It refreshes, and it is welcomed.</p><p>Dean Winchester is dead. The bluebonnets bloom, and Castiel plants poppies.</p><p>Castiel is — Castiel is not dead. He is not sure if death is attainable anymore. He is resting, though. He gardens, and he watches the sky.</p><p>Castiel’s grace is worn, faded. He uses it rarely, to revive dying saplings or warm him in the wind. He flies, though, and enjoys the bird’s-eye view of his acreage.</p><p>The poppies die, and Castiel plants heather; he plants mint, and he plants hydrangeas, all together.</p><p>When his nails are bedded with dirt and he is waiting for his garden to bring itself into being once more, Castiel stands witness from a distance.  </p><p>Dean wears Heaven like his old leather jacket. It fits loose at first, but Castiel sees him grow into it. Looks on as his shoulders adjust to their new lightness. Dean Winchester is dead, but he is free, and Heaven was made for him. Castiel helped build it.</p><p>Jack visits. Jack is a peace so deep that meeting him sunk the Empty back into its dreams. </p><p>They sit in the grass, and Castiel listens to the workings of Heaven and of Earth. Jack tells him what can’t be seen; stories shared at the Roadhouse, coarse jokes and full laughter.</p><p>“He wants to see you,” Jack says. “He knows you’re here.”</p><p>“He’s dead,” Castiel says, after a pause. “I don’t know how to — to be what he needs anymore. He’s dead, Jack.”</p><p>“You should talk to him.” Jack is angry.</p><p>Castiel is, too. “Maybe,” he says. Something fierce.</p><p>Castiel was a warrior, once. He was strategic, calculating; now, Castiel plants his seeds in even rows, gently spaced, watering with exact measurements. He guards his garden from above.</p><p>His name, for eons, it was a gift and a burden: to be shield to an unknown God. He’s come to understand it better, he thinks. Jack is young and old, son and father both. Castiel does not know if he can die anymore, but he knows he has died for Jack. Has shielded Jack. Castiel wears his name with honour, again. He respects its weight.</p><p>Jack looks around them. Unlike Castiel, Jack does not hold anger long; he smiles instead, and it’s something sadly omniscient. “It’s beautiful. You should plant some basil soon.”</p><p>Castiel says he will. Jack goes. Before he does, he says, “I’ve forgiven him, you know. You should, too.” The final word.</p><p>Castiel gardens.</p><p>It could be a Sunday, but it feels like a Thursday. It’s September. Dusk, or late afternoon. His basil is beginning to sprout.</p><p>Castiel pulls weeds from the soil with the same hands that have held Heaven’s framework. It is a wonderfully mundane existence, and Castiel does not know what to do with it. He was content, here, at first. Happy. But Dean Winchester is dead, and he brought his anger with him.</p><p>The road appears suddenly. A familiar highway splitting through his garden, cutting it in two. It extends into the distance, miles of American asphalt. Castiel rises, and he turns.</p><p>“Hello, Dean,” he says.</p><p>Dean watches him, one hand on the hood of the hood of the Impala. “You dumbass,” he says.</p><p>And then — then Dean is <em>there</em>, grabbing at him, pulling Cas roughly against his chest. Cas gasps into the fabric of his shirt, raising a hand to Dean’s shoulder. For balance, or to ground himself, or — or because it doesn’t seem like he needs an excuse to do it anymore.</p><p>“Cas,” Dean says, palm flat against his back. “Christ, I — I — It’s good to see you, man.”</p><p>And then he pulls tighter. And then he lets go. He steps back.</p><p>He grins. “Heaven, huh?” he asks.</p><p>Castiel doesn’t say anything. </p><p>“Lookin’ good. Bobby says you helped with that.”</p><p>Cas looks at him. </p><p>The sun slips to a lower notch in the sky. It’s behind Dean, framing him, flames curling over the ends of his hair. Castiel sees it, and he knows he has seen that fire before. He feels the burns in the bend of his fingers.</p><p>“And this place,” Dean continues, glancing around at his garden, “it’s not too bad, either. You’ve been busy.”</p><p>Dean scuffs his boot in the dirt. He sighs, laughs. It’s low and quiet. “You know, Cas, you’re not an easy angel to track down. Do you know how many shitty motels Heaven has to offer? Your doing, I guess.”</p><p>“Dean —” He stops. What else is there.</p><p>“Yeah,” Dean says, nodding, like Cas has said more. Like they’ve been speaking for hours. Like they’re coming to a long-awaited compromise. Dean looks down. “Yeah,” he says again. </p><p>“Dean,” Cas says. The sun slides down Dean’s shoulders.</p><p>“I know, buddy.” Dean moves forward again, bringing him into another hard embrace. “Jesus — Cas, I — I know.”</p><p>His breath is hot against Cas’s ear. Cas lets himself be held. The air in the garden smells like Texas in mid-April.</p><p>“When you, when you — left,” Deans tells him, “you, God, you have no idea what it did to me, man. What I — what it was like. Why would you — I didn’t get to — <em>dammit</em>, Cas. You just left me there.”</p><p>“Dean<em>.</em>”</p><p>Dean moves back again. He’s dead. He looks the same. Cas aches.</p><p>“I understand, Cas — I do, I know what the kid means to you — but I — shit, I know this is selfish, man — but how could you do that? I thought we — and how could you not tell me? What did you expect me to do, Cas? Because I — I was a <em>wreck</em>. You left me. You kept leaving me. Even here — we’re in Heaven, man. Where have you been? How are you here?”</p><p>Night is coming now, a faded blanket settling over them. It’s getting dark, but not like the Empty was. Not a blank darkness or a heavy darkness. The air is humming, and the wind rustles at their clothes. If Castiel cranes his head, he can see all the flickering constellations, an inverse reflection of those in the Earth’s sky.</p><p>Some have said that the stars are angels — but angels are far too bureaucratic for such an abstraction. Castiel is neither star nor angel now, he thinks. He is something new, perhaps, or something older than memory.</p><p>He gardens.</p><p>“Dean,” he says, and it sounds like warm soil, beckoning in the evening after an afternoon in the sun.</p><p>“Son of a bitch,” Dean says. “<em>Christ, Cas.” </em></p><p>Dean Winchester is dead.</p><p>“I — I — I’m so sorry,” Dean says. “But I’m here now, Cas. I’m here.”</p><p>Dean Winchester is dead. He says, “You have me. You have to know – Cas, you have me.”</p><p>Castiel is not a star; he is not an angel, either, really. Still, he feels a hot light flooding through him, pouring out, overtaking him. He braces for it, then sinks to his knees. </p><p>Dean Winchester is dead, but he follows Castiel into the dirt. He grips his arm, tightly, just below the shoulder, and crowds in close. </p><p>Dean Winchester is dead, but he presses their foreheads together. They breathe, and it is an unsteady echo between them. Dean raises his other hand to grasp at Castiel’s neck, fingers rough and firm against his skin.</p><p>Dean Winchester is dead, but he says, “I love you.”</p><p>He is dead, but he says, “I do. Of course, I love you.<em>”</em></p><p>He says, “Stay.”</p><p>Dean Winchester is dead. Castiel brings his hand to Dean’s chest, feels the heart racing beneath it. His soul is overwhelming.</p><p>The sun begins to rise.</p><p>Dean Winchester is dead, but he is here. He is real. They both are.</p><p>“<em>Dean</em>,” Cas says, because he can. Because he’s here.</p><p>Because Dean Winchester is dead. </p><p>But stars still fall; and roads still unwind; and angels still garden in Heaven.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Today, we're facing the canon head-on.</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>